I'm Sorry, Too
by muggleborn.dragon.ryder
Summary: "He doesn't think I'm good enough to be the son of a chief." And Stoick never really did. Collection of drabbles and one-shots on the bumps in the road in Hiccup and Stoick's relationship, before/during/after the movie.
1. Not Good Enough

Hiccup's father never wanted him around, something that was easily understandable to the rest of the village and even, at times, to the boy himself.

Before his mom died, Stoick was a lot gentler on his son; there wasn't some big need for Hiccup to be a proper Viking.

When Hiccup was six years old, he became very sick and stayed upstairs in his room for days.

The inactivity drove him crazy; he did not like sitting around doing nothing.

Valhallarama came upstairs, a loving smile on her face, the type of smile that only a mother could understand and produce.

She gently smoothed Hiccup's rich auburn hair off his sweaty, feverish forehead.

He jerked violently awake and sat up, coughing, shaking.

After he'd finished coughing, he lay back down and closed his eyes.

Assuming he was asleep, Valhallarama walked quietly away from the bed and was in the doorway when she heard Hiccup's small voice. "Mom?"

"Yes, Hiccup?" she turned to him.

His green eyes were open now and he looked sad. "Does Dad love me?"

"Of course, honey," she told him. "Why would you ever think…?"

"He doesn't like me," Hiccup said quietly. "He doesn't think I'm good enough to be the son of a chief." His voice was matter-of-fact, but a great deal of pain lurked behind Hiccup's words.

Valhallarama wanted to correct him, but he slumped back against the pillows and turned away.


	2. I Miss You

**A/N: Well, here's the second one-shot of the story :-) It's a little...well, IDK, but I feel it's not as good as 'Not Good Enough'.**

* * *

"Hiccup, why don't you go play with your friends?" Stoick suggested quietly.

Hiccup bit his tongue against the honest response: "But, Dad, I don't HAVE any friends!"

He swallowed. "Okay."

Of course his father was just trying to get rid of him.

He was nine years old and tried to stay out of his father's way as much as possible.

He thought sadly of his mother, before banishing the thought. It had been only a month since his mother's death.

He swallowed again and saw the other Viking kids in a circle.

"Okay, Astrid," Snotlout said. "Your turn."

Astrid eagerly clambered to her feet and began making spirited jabs at invisible opponents with her small axe that her parents had given her as a gift for her tenth birthday.

Hiccup watched her sadly, remembering the days they used to be friends. Before she left him, of course.

Hiccup put a smile on his face and walked bravely up to the group of kids. "Hey! Can I play?"

Astrid paused in her pretend fighting of a dragon to raise an eyebrow at him. It had been understood since his earliest days that Hiccup would never fit in with the other Viking kids.

Yet still he tried, and to be honest, it broke Astrid's heart.

Snotlout just looked at Hiccup like he was a pile of dirt. "Why would anyone let _you _play?"

Hiccup bit his lip. "I just wanted…"

Astrid's heart tugged. She felt truly sorry for Hiccup, yet it was true: Why _would _anyone let him play with them?

Snotlout sneered. "You're a freak, Hiccup. Go crying back to your mommy. Oh, wait…you can't!"

Tears pooled in Hiccup's hopeful green eyes and he turned and ran away.

Astrid rounded on Snotlout. "Did you have to do that?"

"Do what?" Snotlout demanded, crossing his arms.

Their argument faded into a meaningless blur behind Hiccup as he ran back to his house, up the stairs and into his bedroom.

Stoick saw the green and brown blur that was his son and called up the stairs, "Hiccup?"

Hiccup gave no reply.

"Hiccup? Are you alright?"

He began climbing the stairs.

When he reached the landing, he saw Hiccup's door was ajar, which was a new thing in and of itself: Hiccup mostly preferred solitude.

He saw Hiccup lying on his bed, staring listlessly up at the ceiling.

Hiccup gave no sign that he realized his father was there.

"Hiccup, are you—

"I'm ok," Hiccup replied, but his voice was small and plaintive.

"Hiccup—

"I SAID, I'm fine," Hiccup cut in, his voice sounding hard. He turned away from his father, his thin shoulders tense.

Stoick looked on helplessly. What was he to do with his son?

Hiccup looked up at his father and sighed. "Dad…"

Stoick raised an eyebrow. "Yes?" He sensed that whatever Hiccup was about to say was going to be hard for the boy.

Hiccup swallowed. "Never mind."

Sensing he had been inches away from opening up, Stoick persisted. "What?"

Hiccup faced him. "I miss you."

"I'm right here!"

"I miss you," Hiccup repeated stubbornly. "You're NOT here anymore."

The words stirred something inside Stoick, but he faced Hiccup unflinchingly. "Hiccup, son, I'm right here."

"No, you're not," Hiccup said quietly. "I miss you, Dad."


	3. The Painting

**A/N: Inspired by Riders of Berk, episode 8 and a little by "How Could You?" by LyricalMedley. :-) Hope you all like it!**

* * *

It paralyzed Hiccup, seeing that painting of himself.

He was…well, there was no other way to put it; he was a buff young man.

It might not have been so bad had Hiccup merely felt disappointed that Bucket had depicted him so wrongly.

Maybe if Stoick had even spoken up about how bad it was, Hiccup would have been able to smile it away.

But, no, there was Stoick, in the thick of it all, laughing about it. "Ah, you did a great job, Bucket!" He'd exclaimed upon first seeing it.

Hurt and shock rippled through Hiccup, the emotions displayed clearly on his face for anyone to see had they been looking at him.

Mulch added, "Now that's the son of a chief!"

Hiccup flinched, like somebody had dealt him a physical blow. Of course it was.

Every single stinking thing that wasn't him was pure Viking.

"But it's not me," he protested in such a small voice Stoick hardly heard him.

Hiccup swallowed back tears. To think he'd honestly thought his father was proud of him. But he wasn't.

He was only looking for perfection.

Once again.

The other people paid him no attention as he slipped out of the Great Hall, tears threatening to spill over as he ran.

Maybe in a few days, he'd be able to forget about this. But how could he when it would hang in the Great Hall forevermore?

And the most pressing question of all: how could Stoick have done this to Hiccup? How could Stoick do that to the son he swore he was proud of?

Hiccup had thought Stoick would be willing to take the good with the bad when it came to his son, but maybe not.

Maybe Hiccup was born to be second best. It wouldn't surprise him.

There were footsteps behind him. "Why'd you leave son?"

Hiccup shrugged uncomfortably as he turned to face his father. "I don't know. I didn't want to be around a whole bunch of people, I guess." He couldn't bring himself to tell Stoick the real reason for his distress.

"Didn't Bucket do a great job?" Stoick asked, pleased.

"It wasn't me," Hiccup protested.

"Of course it was, Hiccup!"

"Not really."

There was a long silence.

Stoick broke it at last by saying quietly, "Hiccup, is this really about the painting?"

Hiccup was about to respond when he realized what his father was asking. "No," he admitted with a sigh. "It's not."

"Then?"

"You like that painting better, don't you?" Hiccup demanded, lip trembling as the words tumbled forth.

"Better than what?"

"Than your own son!"

There was a shocked silence.

"Hiccup."

Hiccup found he couldn't look at Stoick, but he could hear the gentle tone and closed his eyes, praying Stoick would not say anything harsh in that moment.

"Oh, Hiccup." Stoick came over and did the last thing in the world Hiccup had expected: he hugged his son.

"How could I ever love a painting more than…all this?" Stoick asked quietly, gesturing to Hiccup's body.

"You just gestured to all of me."


	4. That's My Boy

**A/N: A really short drabble on Hiccup's thoughts and feelings once he was picked to kill the Nightmare. :-) Inspired by Stoick's line, "That's my boy!"**

* * *

Hiccup heard shouts and whoops of joy as Fishlegs and some of the other teens lifted Hiccup onto their broad shoulders.

"That's my boy!" Stoick yelled, but Hiccup knew this to be untrue.

Of course it wasn't Stoick's boy.

Taking the sentence literally, he was nobody's boy at all.

Hiccup knew he truly didn't belong, but he'd tried so hard to be accepted…

Hiccup now knew his place: a dragon trainer, a dragon rider and a hopeless case. **(The rhyming was totally accidental.)**

Yet Stoick didn't.

Stoick truly thought his scrawny, pathetic excuse for a son was a dragon killer.

Hiccup wasn't Stoick's boy.

He wasn't anyone's boy at all.


	5. You're Not My Son

**A/N: I've decided to focus on this one a little more, and wrote a few drabbles for it last night :-) Expect some healthy father-son angst from me today, guys! :D**

* * *

"You've thrown your lot in with them."

Everything hung suspended, frozen in time.

"You're not a Viking."

The words were only an obvious statement; thus, they could not hurt Hiccup.

"You're not my son."

It was only those four words that shocked Hiccup to his very core, made his entire being tremble and shake like a leaf in a harsh winter wind.

It was only those words that cut right through him.

Now, even if he had wanted to, he could not have called out after his father; the shock was too great.

His shoulders were hunched as he stared unseeingly after Stoick and something about Hiccup's posture suggested he had been shattered.

This almost made Hiccup regret befriending Toothless. Almost.

Hiccup stared at the door his father had so angrily slammed shut, leaving his devastated son behind in darkness.

Well…not his son anymore, Hiccup reminded himself sadly.


	6. I Wish

**A/N: Your author has returned! :-P But guys, does anyone have any ideas for the next chapter? Thanks to AquaNerd, ChineseChestBreach and Saphirabrightscale for their reviews. As you can see, I took ChineseChestBreach's suggestion and am currently attempting to make the chapters longer. This will most likely fizzle out after awhile. You have been warned, LOL.**

* * *

When Stoick sent Hiccup to work in the forge, Hiccup knew exactly why.

After all, Stoick had never, ever, kept quiet about the fact that his son was an utter disgrace.

Gobber spoke quietly to him long after they thought the twelve-year-old Viking lay asleep in his bed.

"Stoick, don't be so harsh on him," Gobber said quietly. "So, what if he hasn't got muscles? Your kid has brains. That's more than a lot of other people have."

"Well, it's a good thing he's got brains, then," Stoick intoned dryly, sounding extraordinarily like his son. "We definitely need brains to help kill dragons."

"All I'm saying is that one day, those smarts are going to come in handy."

Stoick sighed. "I just don't know what to do with him. During every raid, he's ALWAYS in the way, he keeps hindering us, not helping us."

Hiccup flinched and sucked in a breath.

"What am I gonna do? He's too young for training and besides that, he'd get himself killed!"

Gobber sighed, examining his rusty metal hook. "Well, Stoick, if you really need a place for him…" Reluctance lurked in Gobber's voice, but Stoick was an old friend. If he genuinely needed this…

And besides, Hiccup wasn't bad company. He just wasn't the most satisfactory Viking ever.

"Yes?" Stoick perked up instantly. "What?"

Gobber cleared his throat. "Well, I've got an opening at the forge. I've been needing a new apprentice for months."

Stoick nodded. "You think you can take him?"

"But, Stoick, be careful of the boy's feelings when you tell him this."

"What?"

There was a momentary silence as Gobber hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Stoick…Hiccup may not be as burly as some others out there, but he's…well, he's not like us, you know, he's…easy to hurt."

Stoick raised an eyebrow, a clear invitation for Gobber to keep talking.

Gobber swallowed. "He's smart enough to put two-and-two together, but I don't think you should tell him you're only sticking him in the forge to get rid of him."

Stoick sighed. "I don't want to get rid of him, not really. But he keeps getting in the way of everything…"

"I know," Gobber replied. "But be gentle on the boy, Stoick. For Odin's sake, he's not like us."

Hiccup gripped the wall hard, his head echoing with every word that had been said.

Gobber continued, "Surely you must've realized by now he's never gonna grow, Stoick. Taller, maybe. But he's not going anywhere in the muscle department."

Stoick nodded. "Yes, I know. That's why he's never getting out there."

"What do you mean?"

"He's never getting out there to fight dragons, Gobber. He would only help the beasts and hinder us, for one. For another, I'm not letting him risk his life. He'd get himself killed just trying to take on a Nadder. He can't handle himself, Gobber. I can't let him try."

"So, what are you gonna do when you get too old and he becomes chief?"

Stoick sighed. "Pray to Thor."

Hiccup had heard enough. He made the most of his light tread now as he slipped upstairs, vision blurry with tears.

"_You're only sticking him in the forge to get rid of him."_

Hiccup buried his face in his blanket, feeling his chin tremble.

At last, Hiccup heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and hastily pretended to be asleep, breathing deeply and evenly, letting his chest gently rise and fall in the illusion of rest.

"_What are you gonna do when you get too old and he becomes chief?"_

"_Pray to Thor."_

Hiccup's closed eyes stung with tears behind his lids.

Stoick stared at the sleeping form of his small, twelve-year-old son, so innocent and pure, so hopeful.

Gobber was right.

Hiccup was easy to hurt. Stoick ought to be gentle.

He felt a stirring of guilt at the fact that he had never really been that gentle on his son before, the way Val would have wanted him to be.

He laid a hand on Hiccup's forehead. "My son…"

Hiccup did not twitch.

Stoick said quietly, "My son…"

Then he turned and lumbered back downstairs.

Hiccup opened his wet, stinging eyes and stared after his father.

The moonlight made a silvery bar across Hiccup's shape in his bed and he crawled out of bed and knelt by the window.

He leaned his cheek against the cool sill, spotted a star, closed his eyes and made a wish. "Please," he whispered, "please let me make Dad proud. I don't…" His chin trembled. "I don't want to be the screw-up of Berk anymore. Please let me make my dad proud."

His cries were quiet, but they penetrated the utter silence. "I don't want to be the screw-up of Berk anymore. And…please…" on this, his voice trembled, not with sadness, but with terrified hope. "Please give me a friend. And help me make Dad proud."


	7. I'm Right Here

**A/N: Ok, I know I've taken a really long time getting back to you guys, but I wrote this one earlier today and thought, 'huh. It isn't so bad'. I've been kind of focused on some of my other fanfics, and this one got shoved aside. But I will try to focus on it more! I think I've left my other readers with...plenty to think about ;-)**

* * *

"I'm never good enough," Hiccup stated. And he knew he wasn't.

It wasn't something he had to think about; he didn't feel bad about it; it was fact.

But the day he turned thirteen, he DID feel bad about it.

When he woke up that morning, he made, not one wish, but two: the first, he had wished for his mother to come striding in through that door, but he knew that wish was impossible; his mother was dead.

The second wish had been simply: let my father be proud today.

Stoick would never be proud. This was plain and simple truth and he would never, ever feel pride in his son.

That day, dragons attacked again. This was something Hiccup was used to and he felt a great leap of excitement; perhaps Thor was answering his wish.

He ran outside, in the heat of the battle, excited yet scared.

When a Nadder started attacking him, he attempted to beat it off the way he'd seen his father do so many countless times.

The Nadder let out a breath of flame and his sleeve caught fire.

Terrified, he attempted to bat the flames away, but that only made it worse.

So he merely lay still, in his panic forgetting what his father had always taught him about flames.

The flames raged and licked up and down his arm, and the Nadder opened her mouth, preparing to finish him off...

Stoick leaped in, brandishing a hammer at the Nadder. "Hiccup, go!"

Hiccup, in his shock, barely moved.

To his credit, he was in shock, not to mention the fire still faintly burning on his sleeve was causing him pain, which made everything hazy and made it hard to think.

"Dad," he whispered, "was only trying to-"

"I know, now GO!" Stoick hollered.

Hiccup scrambled backwards, and finally the flames died.

Hiccup had never feared for his father's life before; but watching that fight, he did now.

* * *

When the dragon attack was over, it was to find Stoick yelling so loudly that Hiccup's ears rang long after the last yell had been uttered.

"WHAT DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?!"

Hiccup squirmed. It was a tight place. "I just wanted to make you proud-"

"Proud nothing!" Stoick exclaimed. "I almost lost you!"

"I'm thirteen years old today." Hiccup told him. "That should mean I'm becoming a great dragon killer. Right?"

There was a silence.

"But I'm not," Hiccup said. "Right?"

Stoick couldn't argue.

Hiccup turned to go upstairs.

"Think about this next time you decide to risk your life," Stoick told him, not unkindly. "Think of how Val risked her life to save yours. She would be ashamed of you right now, Hiccup."

Hiccup ran up to his bedroom and cried. "All I wanted to do," he murmured, "was to make my father proud. That's all I wanted."

He cried for a long time; until his sadness turned to anger.

Anger at himself, for being so stupid...anger at his father, for yelling at him instead of talking it out the way he wanted to.

Anger, such terrible rage that he stood and began yelling at himself.

He tore the blanket and pillow off his bed, he kicked his desk aside and threw away all his drawings.

He tore all his clothes out of his closet and let them fall to the floor.

At last, he sat amid the wreckage of his room and took out his dagger.

Holding it close to the wall, he stared at the wall as if it were a giant canvas. Then he very slowly began to carve.

* * *

Perhaps he was too harsh. Hiccup needed a firm hand to be dealt with, but perhaps, just this once, Stoick had been a little TOO firm.

He walked upstairs to see his son clutching a woven basket and looking around at his trashed room, which was quite a sight: it was totally trashed.

The desk had been kicked aside, the drawings upon drawings torn from the walls.

On the wall, letters were carved with the blunt dagger Gobber had bequeathed the boy with.

"I'M SORRY I CAN'T BE PERFECT."

Hiccup was not looking at his father; he seemed completely transfixed with whatever was in the woven basket.

"Ok, that should cover-Dad!"

Hiccup scrambled up, temporarily forgetting his wall. "Hey, Dad."

"Hiccup," Stoick began gently, but Hiccup tensed and flinched.

"Son..."

"Hey Dad."

"What's on your wall?"

Hiccup glanced back at his wall, hesitated and then collapsed on his bed. "Oh, Dad..."

He began sobbing quietly and Stoick awkwardly patted him. "Son..."

"I...never meant to make you ashamed of me," Hiccup choked. "I just wanted to be liked. I just wanted you to be proud of me."

There was a silence, save for the creak of rusty bedsprings as Stoick sat down beside Hiccup on the bed.

Hiccup began crying freely in his father's arms. "I just wanted...to make you proud."

"I am, son," Stoick whispered, hands in Hiccup's richly colored red hair. "I'm right here."


	8. It Hurts

**A/N: Sorry guys. It has been awhile, hasn't it? Anyway, here's chapter 8! XD I get the feeling this fanfic isn't as popular as one would've hoped and every chapter is pretty much just an angst-fest. Still, isn't that what I promised you guys in the summary? XD From Hiccup's POV.**

* * *

You never listen. I'm right here, watching you, but you never listen to me.

I'll be honest with you: It hurts, Dad. The way you never listen, the way you ignore me, the way you look right through me, for Thor's sake – it all hurts.

Because all I want is to make you proud.

I want to truly be your son, Dad.

I want us to be a father and a son and to have a good relationship and to finally, finally, mend us.

Dad, it's gonna take a lot of time and patience and listening to heal this utter brokenness inside of me.

I'd like to think you'd take the time to do this, to lend an ear when I want to be heard, but I know the truth: 'I love you' has lost all meaning.

The definition is empty now and there is no way to broach the subject.

If I were to tell you I loved you, what would you say? What would you think?

Would you think that I'm a hopeless mistake, or would you say it back?

Dad, that's all I want to know.

But I will never say it to you.

Because, if I were to say it, what would happen if you didn't say it back?

It would cripple me forever. To be honest, I would never really heal if I found out you didn't love me.

But that's the ugly truth and we must face it.

Oh, I hear you coming in the door now. So I'll shove this book out of sight, where you cannot see it, because I know you disapprove of writing in all its forms.

You're coming in the door now and you're looking at me.

That's the only communication we have. It hurts. It feels like a million icy daggers in my heart whenever I look at you.

Dad, you make me want to cry. I'm just so SICK of pretending.

Dad, I don't want to keep pretending I'm all right.

Dad, please hold me. Please hold out your arms and hug me; isn't that what a father does? Isn't that what the father's supposed to do?

Isn't it?

But of course you won't give me an answer. I'm not saying any of this out loud.

We will never speak. We will never sit down and have a real conversation; to do so would require you to listen to me.

We will never be honest with each other; to do so would require you to look at me, and I know that you avoid it and I know why.

I know you avoid looking at me, the mistake, the utter mistake that forced its way into your life because my mom wanted a son and you could not be as cold-hearted as to throw me into the ocean.

Dad, sometimes I think you should have done that; and I know you do, too.

Dad, you should've thrown me into the ocean when it became clear that I would never be the Viking you wanted me to be.

It would be better for me than what you do now. The way you ignore me digs itself deeply into my skin and heart and nests there, planting little seeds of hurt. They start out little, but they sprout and grow and grow and every day you water them.

Every day that you don't look at me or speak to me plants another seed.

And it hurts.

It hurts.


	9. Cry

**A/N: Hi! Short and sweet and angsty! What do you think :-)?**

"How can I be good enough for you?"

Stoick glanced up from his breakfast of eggs and bacon. "What?"

"Dad," Hiccup was nearly in tears now, "how can I be good enough for you?"

Stoick stared at him. "Hiccup, you are good enough for me!"

It was a few weeks after the battle with the Green Death and Hiccup still waited, patiently as ever, for the moment when Stoick would give him that familiar, disgusted look that so plainly screamed, "You're not good enough."

Hiccup knew his hero status couldn't last long; after all, he was no more a hero than Bucket.

"Dad, you hated me! For the past fourteen years, you have hated me and Dad...I just want to know...how I can be good enough for you...so you'll never hate me again..."

And, right there at the breakfast table, which had never seen a more dramatic form of entertainment, Hiccup broke down in tears.

Stoick sat in his chair for a moment longer, then stood and ran over to Hiccup's side and patted him heavily on the back. "There, there, son," he said quietly. "Hiccup, I never hated you..."

"How can I be good enough for you?" Hiccup sobbed brokenly. "When I'm not even good enough for myself?"

Stoick gasped as he heard the question that had haunted Hiccup for so long.

"Son," he said quietly, "did you honestly think I could ever hate you?"

Hiccup, very slowly, nodded. "I know you did," he said. "And now...you SAY you're proud, but I just don't know..."

"And then," he continued quietly, hauntingly and though Stoick was sure he did not want to hear it he listened, "and then you disowned me. And, dad, I was SO SURE you hated me. So sure. I could deal with that, though, you know. I could deal with someone hating me, even if it was my own father. People hated me since before I was even old enough to walk and talk. But now you're telling me you're proud and you're acting proud and I'm just thinking, 'where's the catch?'"

Hiccup's voice was so low and haunting, speaking with the pent-up pain of almost fourteen years.

"Will you please tell me, just so I can stop waiting, waiting for the other...shoe to drop?"

Stoick gasped as though he'd been doused with cold water. "Hiccup...there is no catch...there is no other shoe..."

"There's ALWAYS a catch," Hiccup told him. "I'm not good enough to be the chief or his son. I'm just me. And, Dad, 'me' really isn't good enough."

His voice shook as he spoke and Stoick appreciated how hard this must have been for the boy.

Hiccup had kept his feelings locked up inside for years and now they were spilling out in a gloppy mess.

"Hiccup," Stoick said, "you ARE just you. You are impulsive and thoughtless and you don't think like regular Vikings."

Hiccup's shoulders slumped as he listened to his father tear him down. "I know," he mumbled.

"You're sarcastic and rudely honest," Stoick continued doggedly, "but you're also intelligent and strong."

There was a silence as a hopeful look crossed Hiccup's face.

It broke Stoick's heart to know that hope had once been met with disappointment so often. No more, he promised himself. Time to pull myself together and be a father.

"You killed a dragon the size of a planet," Stoick went on. "You befriended the most dangerous species of all and you showed the rest of us that we didn't have to fight dragons either. And you think you're not good enough?"

Hiccup blushed and stood, clearly a little embarrassed. "That was all Toothless," he mumbled. "Not me-"

"You are good enough, Hiccup," Stoick said gently. "Now go out there and be a Viking."

"I will," Hiccup said softly.

His dad reared back his fist and punched him hard, in the shoulder, causing Hiccup to fall forward and just barely manage to stay upright by gripping the table edge with the tip of his fingers.

"Oops," grinned Stoick and he watched his boy struggle on his prosthetic and run towards the door, out where his new life awaited him, surely better than his old one.


	10. Not The Son You Wanted

**A/N: Ok, I wrote this one a few months back as a stand-alone one-shot, but I thought if I polished it up a bit, maybe it would be ok. What do you think? The angst-fest is almost over! (Mostly because I'm running out of ideas.)**

* * *

I never knew what happened, really, to make my father and I two separate entities.

All I know is that it happened.

All I know is that seven years ago, after my mom died, everything changed for me.

Sure, I was ignored before, but now the silence became unbearable.

Without my mother to keep convincing me that things were gonna be alright, silence filled every particle of my mind, tore holes in my soul, let me know just how much I missed my mother.

Before, I might have been able to ignore the snide remarks aimed at me.

After all, Mom was always telling me to just ignore the comments.

And when she was there, I could.

When she was there, life was okay. Not perfect, but okay.

I never knew just how much I could miss her.

And the day she died, a wall went up between my father and I.

We never spoke of it, we never mentioned the way we barely glanced at each other anymore; it was just the way things were.

But to me, it seemed so glaringly obvious that something was wrong; Mom's death changed things.

I tried to ignore it, but it wasn't easy.

Everything piled up on me:

I was a mistake and I knew it.

I was a mistake and my father knew it.

I was a mistake and every single freaking person in the village knew it.

And everyone let me know it, too, as if thinking I already didn't.

I was a mistake and my mom had known it.

And now she was dead. She wasn't there to tell me otherwise. She wasn't there to help.

Anger towards her for her abandonment drove me farther away than I should have let myself go; but I didn't try to stop it.

When I turned thirteen, something inside me snapped; like I had been reaching breaking point for ages and had never known it.

* * *

"I'M SICK OF BEING IGNORED!"

There. There it was.

It was the first time I'd ever acknowledged the fact that I was lonely, angry and scared, and it was to my father, of all people.

Dad and I had never been close; he preferred to keep me at arm's length and I didn't argue.

But that day, something inside of me snapped so suddenly I didn't even realize it had happened. But happen it had.

"What?" my father glanced up from his normal breakfast.

"I'm sick of it, Dad! I'm sick of being ignored!"

There was a silence.

"Hiccup, you're not ignored!" Dad said, going for the same soothing tone my mom used to use.

I shot him a 'don't-try-that-with-me' glare and he dropped his gaze and lowered his voice, changed his tone.

"Hiccup, you're not ignored. You just don't get out there and _talk _to people—

"They hate me," I said flatly. "The people in the village, they hate me!"

A somber silence lingered.

Finally, I broke it. "Dad, I've ALWAYS been ignored, but I'm really getting tired of it now and everything…everything sucks…"

The breaking point was in sight now; I didn't want to reach it but what if?

I suddenly realized I really didn't care who saw me break. Whoever saw me snap, it didn't matter.

I needed my father to look at me and talk to me and not ignore me.

"Even you ignore me, Dad! Even you know I'm a mistake!"

The last sentence slipped out with no conscious thought from me.

Dad stood. "Is that what you think?"

There was a long silence.

Yes, Dad, that is exactly what I think.

I wanted to say those words, but I just knew I couldn't.

"Look at me," I said instead. "I mean, just look at me! I'm…the size of a toothpick; I've got all the abilities of one! I'm the chief's son, Dad! I'm supposed to be all tough and strong and bloodthirsty but I'm the weakest runt in Viking history! My name…my name, Dad, is _Hiccup. _It's Viking tradition to call runts 'Hiccup'."

There was a silence; a long, unbroken one that I thought would never end.

Finally, Dad said, "Hiccup, listen to me. Your mother…" His voice trailed off for a second as a sad expression crossed his face, then he quickly picked up the sentence again. "Your mother decided to name you that because you were special!"

"Oh, yeah, real special," I snorted, cutting across him. I didn't want to hear it. I wanted to be angry and sad. I wanted to give myself a chance to feel worthless, because I always felt that way.

"Your mother knew there weren't many Vikings out there like you," Dad tried again.

"I'm a freak!" I shouted angrily. "Dad, I'm a freak, okay? Just deal with the fact that your son sucks!"

There was another pause, much longer than the last.

"And don't give me that 'you're special' crap, don't give me that 'your mother knew it'—

My voice broke and my entire façade just crumbled. It just crumbled right around me and fell at my feet in a heap.

I buried my face in my hands and cried. I cried because I hadn't when Mom had passed away, I cried because I kept my mouth firm and my eyes dry throughout that entire thing, but NOW I was ready to cry.

Dad hovered for a second, then tentatively held out his arms.

I fell into them, gasping for breath, trying to breathe through my tears.

"I'm…so sorry, Dad…I just…I didn't mean to go off on you…"

Dad spoke softly. "Hiccup, I just never knew you thought…you were a mistake."

I pulled away from him. "Thought?"

Dad looked at me curiously.

"I don't think I'm a mistake," I said quietly. "I _know. _Okay, Dad? I know I'm a mistake and I'm sorry because I know I'm not the…son you wanted…"

Another fresh wave of tears engulfed me and I tried to fight them back. "I'm a mistake. And you know it."

"Listen," Dad said, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me roughly. Though for him, that was probably a gentle movement. "You were _never, ever _a mistake. No one thinks you are—

"Except Snotlout, Astrid, Ruffnut and Tuffnut and Fishlegs," I cut in. "And, uh, oh, yeah, everyone else on Berk."

Dad sighed and dropped his hands. "You are _not _a mistake. You are my son."

I felt tears building up again. "Snotlout said…that Thor cursed you…with me…"

I bit my lip against the new tears.

Dad looked aghast. "Hiccup, you are not the result of a curse! You're not a mistake! You are my son."

"You'll always be my son."


	11. Always

**A/N: GAH! So close to the end! Oh, and by the way, this chapter was inspired by the LAST one, so...yeah :-) Oh, and this one's from Hiccup's POV.**

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I remember a time, so very long ago, when you told me five words that I clung onto through the years, because they were the only words that ever let me know you loved me.

I held on so tightly to those five little words, but now I'm watching you destroy them.

And even as your mouth forms these hateful words, meant to hurt and sting and burn, I'm hearing the other words.

You're saying four words, but I'm hearing five.

And when you said those five words, I heard four.

"You'll always be my son," you told me quietly that day, as rain came down by the bucketfuls and lightning flashed outside our house.

I was sitting by the fire, reading a book and you suddenly looked up from your position of tending the fire and said quietly, softly, "You'll always be my son."

I had not asked for assurance of your love, though I wanted to; I had not asked you to give me that feeling of closeness.

But you did.

And now, I certainly did not ask you to tell me I was not your son, but telling me it you are.

I'm mentally playing back the memory I stored in my heart for so long, the rain drumming on the wooden roof and you murmuring, "Hiccup…you'll always be my son…"

I had been sitting so close to the warm, crackling firelight and now I am caught in your shadow, staring up at you, and you are saying in a voice of almost deadly calm, "You're not my son."

What happened to _always, _Dad?

That day of my childhood, all those years ago, you didn't tell me four words, but five: "You'll always be my son."

_Always._

Dad…what happened to always?


	12. I'm Sorry, Too

**A/N: This is the last chapter. Just wanted you all to know, thanks for the reviews and thank you for making this experience a great one. :-) Now, not to pressure you guys or anything, but please tell me how I did! (Hint, hint: There's the review button...)**

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Stoick stared up in shock as Hiccup rode in on a dragon.

He watched the other teens battle the dragon queen until the Hofferson girl returned…without Hiccup.

The Hofferson girl was riding the Nadder Hiccup had been riding with her, but he was not there.

With a sudden shock, something clicked in Stoick's brain and he looked over at the burning boats.

His son's dragon was still on that boat, and Hiccup loved that dragon with all the compassion in his little heart; therefore, Hiccup must be on the boat, too.

Stoick raced over to the burning fleet, only to see the dragon queen stomp on them, narrowly missing Stoick himself but sending Hiccup and Toothless into the water.

Stoick's Viking instincts kicked in as he jumped into the freezing ocean and saw his poor son struggling to unchain his dragon with those weak little arms of his…

_I did this, _Stoick thought, but he knew it was his fault now; no time to go blaming himself, he reminded himself quickly as he swam over to Hiccup and grabbed him up.

Would Hiccup forgive him for this, leaving Toothless down there for precious seconds longer as Stoick rescued his son first?

Would Hiccup forgive if, in those seconds, Toothless ran out of breath and the great dragon ceased to live?

The thought of the beast dying sent Stoick working into overdrive; he towed Hiccup to the shore, and watched as the boy's white face slowly began gaining color again.

Stoick pressed lightly on his son's chest and Hiccup sat up, coughing out seawater.

Stoick quickly threw himself down again, frantic now to reach the dragon.

But the distrust in the dragon's eyes made him stop short; would this beast never trust him?

Well, if he didn't, Stoick wouldn't blame him.

And he wouldn't blame Hiccup, either…

The idea of apologizing to his son and fixing everything sent an unfamiliar ripple of joy through Stoick; perhaps things could be fixed after all.

Time stood still as man eyes met dragon eyes and the dragon eyes were ancient, endlessly green and full of pain and confusion. Where's my boy? he seemed to be asking Stoick.

And there in the water, where time stood still and two hearts inside two very different bodies beat on relentlessly, Stoick held out his hand towards the dragon.

The dragon closed his eyes as Stoick began unchaining the magnificent beast.

But when he was free, the dragon launched himself at Stoick…

And next second, he was breathing again as the Night Fury landed on the rocks, letting Stoick go beside Hiccup and looking expectantly at his boy as if to say: Hiccup, come on. It's time for us to fight.

Hiccup nodded. "You got it, bud." His voice was hoarse, as ancient as his dragon's eyes and as aching as if he had seen all the pain in all the world.

And it broke Stoick's heart the way his son would not look at him, although he certainly didn't blame him, not one little bit.

Hiccup did up the buckles and fixed his boot to the pedal, neither of them knowing that boot would soon be gone.

And Hiccup was about to take off…

Stoick could not bear watching his son leave without first making things right. "Hiccup!"

Hiccup turned to look at the man who was gripping his hand, the man who had caused him so much hurt it was hard to tell whether or not they truly loved each other anymore. Their relationship had been so bent and fractured and now it was reaching breaking point; could anything save it?

"I'm sorry," Stoick choked. "For…for everything."

Hiccup looked resigned to this now. "Yeah," he whispered quietly. "Yeah, me too. I'm sorry, too, Dad."

"You don't have to go up there."

"We're Vikings. It's an occupational hazard."

There was a silence as Hiccup gave an 'I'm-terrified-out-of-my-wits-but-let-me-do-this' smile.

Stoick recognized the stubborn set of Hiccup's jaw, the slight firming of his mouth, the proud tilt of the shoulders and head…

Pride rushed through that father. "I'm proud to call you my son."

"Thanks, Dad," whispered Hiccup, who had never heard anything of the sort before. And he shot up into the air, his weary voice echoing in Stoick's head: _I'm sorry, too._


End file.
